Rain

• Steph Pettigrew, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2020

When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres, and the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, what a joy to press the pillow of a cottage-chamber bed, and to listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart; and a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start, and a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, as I listen to the patter of the rain upon the roof.
Now in fancy comes my mother, as she used to, years ago, to survey her darling dreamers, ere she left them till the dawn; oh, I see her bending o'er me, as I list to this refrain which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, and her bright-eyed cherub brother -a serene, angelic pair, -glide around my wakeful pillow, with their praise or mild reproof, as I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me with her eye's delicious blue; and forget I, gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her with a rapture kin to pain, and my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art's bravura’s, that can work with such a spell in the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions well, as that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.